Losing an Edge (Portland Storm Book 13) (10 page)

“Fucking right,” Hammer shouted as he skated over and smacked his gloved hand on my helmet repeatedly. “That’s what you fucking do, kid. That’s why you’re going to earn the big bucks one day.”

BY THE TIME
I finished showering and dressing after the game, Ghost had already been called out to do the post-game interview with Anne Dennison. Better him than me. I sucked on camera. Put a hockey stick in my hands, and I was fine. But shove a mic in my face, and all I did was blush and stammer and answer in two-word sentences.

The television and radio crews rarely requested me for interviews because it was next to impossible to get a decent sound bite out of me. Ghost tended to do well with them, though—especially when Anne conducted the interview. The two of them had been flirting with each other like nobody’s business all season, which only led to the guys ragging on him even more than we already did. He was the smallest guy on the team—and practically a fucking midget out on the ice compared to the rest of us—so he always took a lot of heat for anything and everything. His crush on Anne was only the latest fodder he’d let slip.

I busied myself with tossing all my gear in my bag so the equipment guys could haul it out and tried not to pay attention to the pair of them. Ignoring them wasn’t easy, though. The way they’d set everything up here in Denver, Anne was conducting her interview about three stalls away from me.

Ghost dragged a towel down his face and draped it around his shoulders, holding on to the ends of it in a way that caused his biceps to flex. Then he winked at her. Apparently he didn’t care that the cameras were catching his every move, as long as Anne noticed.

She gave him a sly grin, which emphasized her exotic cheekbones. I had no idea what all ethnicities she came from. She looked partly Indian, but there was a lot more in there, leaving her with dramatic features to go alongside her taller-than-the-average-woman stature. Add in some killer heels, and you couldn’t honestly blame the guy for being smitten with her.

“Tell me what you all talked about heading into the third period, only up by a single goal against this dangerous Avalanche offense.” She pushed the mic toward him.

“We just wanted to keep the pressure on them, not get caught thinking we were ahead and didn’t need to do anything more. One-goal games can be a trap, especially when you’re on the road.” Still the pat answer all hockey players tend to give, but Ghost said it with feeling, not to mention with cocky smiles and a bit more muscle flexing than was entirely necessary.

But Anne absolutely ate his response up. “You and your line did exactly that. Nice goal there halfway through the third. You were so strong on the puck with the Avalanche double-teaming you.”

“Gotta give the credit to my line mates and 501 over there,” he said, winking and pointing in my direction. “He’s the one who made the magic happen. Great shot to get some action in front of their net. It was a group effort. Everyone on the ice contributed to that one.”

Anne flashed a smile in my direction, but the amount of time she spared me was very brief. After that, her attention was squarely on Ghost.

Drywall Tierney came up to take my gear from me.

“How’s your chin?” I asked as I hoisted my bag over to him.

He lifted his head to show me. “Seventeen stitches, but at least I’ve still got all my teeth.”

“Better than most anyone else around here can claim. Didn’t fuck up your jaw?”

“It’d take a hell of a lot more than some stray puck to take Drywall out,” Hammer said, coming back from the showers. He stripped off his towel and tossed it in the hamper in the middle of the room, leaving himself naked as the day he was born.

“You don’t care that…” I trailed off, waving my hand toward Anne and Ghost. At least the cameras were facing them and not us, but Anne would get an eyeful if she turned around any time soon.

Hammer glanced over and chuckled. “She’s not paying any attention to me. Not with her lover boy right there making googly eyes at her.” He took his time getting dressed, and Drywall headed off with my bag.

I took a seat on the bench next to him. “So we did all right tonight. You and me, I mean,” I added when he arched a brow at me.

“I’d say we did a hell of a lot better than all right. That was your best fucking game since I’ve been here. By a mile. You were calm with the puck. You made good first passes to clear out of the zone. You got a fucking assist. Give yourself a bit of credit sometimes, 501.”

I shrugged. “I do when credit is warranted.”

“Bullshit. Never met a kid so hard on himself before. Give yourself a damn break every now and then.”

“But it’s only one game.”

“It was a good fucking game. Take ’em one at a time. Build on it.” He sat down next to me to put on his shoes. “Look, you’re going to have bad nights. We all do. The thing is, you can’t focus on them. You can’t let the fuckups outweigh the good nights, or all you’ll end up doing is fucking up even more. You’ve got as much potential as any defenseman I’ve played with in my career, and I’ve played with some of the best. That’s why they drafted you. That’s why you’re here and not in the minors. You just have to start believing in yourself. No big deal. Take chances. You’re bound to fuck up sometimes, but you’ll probably also start to do things you never thought you were capable of.”

HAMMER’S WORDS WERE
still ringing in my ears hours later when we got to our hotel in St. Louis. We would have stayed in Denver overnight if not for the fact that we had a back-to-back situation, so it was about two in the morning when we headed up to our rooms.

Koz was my road roommate, but he veered off to the hotel gym before coming up. He spent time in the gym every night in every hotel we stayed at—another thirty-minute workout before bed. For some reason, he claimed the activity helped him sleep better. I wasn’t so sure of the reasoning, considering how much he always tossed and turned all night long, but since it meant I had him out of my hair for the next half hour, I wasn’t going to argue.

Because I wanted to talk to Cadence. I realized that what Hammer said, he’d meant it to be about playing hockey. But he was an older and wiser guy, right? There wasn’t any good reason his words of wisdom couldn’t apply to everything in life.

Take chances. Stick your neck out. Maybe take a risk or two.
Yeah, I could strike out. But I might just hit a home run, too.

Not if I didn’t try.

I couldn’t call her now, though. It was after midnight in Portland, so she probably wasn’t awake. I’d figured out she tended to wake up early for some sort of workout—whether it meant going to the gym or hitting the ice—and I didn’t want to disturb that.

But I could send her a text message. She’d likely sleep right through the tone, and then she’d see my message in the morning. I still had to sort out what I wanted to say.

I know we said we’d be friends, but I need you to know I want our relationship to be more than that. If you’re not ready for more now, that’s fine. I completely understand. I do. I’m willing to give you time, but eventually I want this to be more. So if I don’t ever stand a chance with you, I need you to let me know that.

Less than a minute passed from when I pressed
Send
before my phone was ringing.
Cadence
.

“Hello?”

“How much time are you willing to give me?” Her voice sounded raspy, kind of husky, like she’d just woken up. Sexy as all hell.

That definitely wasn’t what I’d been expecting. And frankly, I didn’t know how to respond. “How much time do you think you need?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“No. Not yet, at least.”

Progress. Baby steps, but it was progress. “Does this have anything to do with your former partner?” I hadn’t ever forgotten the way he’d nearly brought her to tears right after they’d won the gold medal.

Her answer was silence, which was as good as a
yes
in my book. Maybe she didn’t want to tell me, but she
was
, a piece at a time.

“Okay,” I said. “So does this mean I at least have a chance?”

“You have a chance. I don’t know how much of a chance, but it’s something.”

“I can work with something.”

“After you guys get back, are you doing anything on that Saturday?”

My jaw nearly hit my chest, because
she
was suggesting doing something with
me
. “No plans other than practice.”

“Anthony’s fiancé has the night off. He wants to get together and do something. He said I should bring someone with me, and if it’s not you, it’ll likely be Connor.”

“Do Anthony and his fiancé mind being around cussing toddlers?”

“I’m not sure.” She laughed.

“Well, I suppose it had better be me, then. Just in case.”

“Is a cussing hockey player better than a cussing toddler?”

Since it meant I would have a chance to spend time with Cadence? “Yes. Absolutely.”

“I guess I’ll see you then. I’ll text you once I know a time and place.”

THINK OF IT
as courting
, I reminded myself for at least the thirty-eighth time in the last hour. That was what my new counselor, Wendy, had suggested when we’d talked through my trepidations. This wasn’t a date. Levi and I weren’t going to be alone together. We would have Anthony and Jesse with us the whole time, to act as my safety net, and there wasn’t a chance in hell that Anthony would let me out of his sight the whole day. The more time I spent with him, the more I realized he was made of the same cloth as Cam, in terms of their overly protective instincts.

When Wendy had first brought up the idea of courting, I’d almost balked. I mean, courting was such an outdated idea, right? Only the more she explained the general concept, the more it made sense. When a couple is courting, they’re never alone together. They can get to know one another first using friends and family as a buffer before jumping into the modern world’s idea of dating, which often ended up moving way too fast for what I was ready for right now.

Better yet, Levi didn’t necessarily have to know he was courting me. He’d agreed to give me time, and in the interim we’d be friends. We could do things that friends do, without him ever needing to come to terms with what we were doing in that way. Calling it courting was more to help me cope and not freak out about
dating
again.

The doorbell rang. My blood pressure shot through the roof with nerves despite all my efforts at calming myself down. I headed downstairs to answer it, but Connor beat me to it.

“Who’re you?” he demanded, the way only a four-year-old can do.

“I’m Anthony. Don’t you remember me?”

“I ’member agilators eating you. Who’s he?” Connor demanded, pointing.

“This is my friend, Jesse.”

“Mommy says I’m not asposed to talk to strangers. Maybe agilators should eat him, too.”

“Mommy also says you’re not supposed to answer the door,” I said, coming around the corner. “But lucky for you, these guys are my friends and not some men who are here to steal naughty little boys.”